


Non-conductive

by enmity



Category: Persona Series, Persona | Revelations Persona
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 11:05:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11439561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enmity/pseuds/enmity
Summary: “Yo! Kei! I didn’t expect to see you here!” Masao greeted in Japanese. “Don’t tell me you’re here to see my show — well, of course not. You wouldn’t get it. But still; I didn’t expect you’d be in London.”“I’ve been studying in this country for the past year, you utter buffoon,” Kei spluttered. “So if anything, I should be saying that!”(In 1998, Mark and Kei have an accidental reunion at a hotel. Nothing comes out of it.)





	Non-conductive

They went separate ways after graduation.

With Eriko’s help, Maki caught up with her lessons impressively well, and when Kei had overheard her being asked what she wanted to major in, she replied “psychology” with a sort of self-assured certainty he never thought he’d hear in her voice, the first time he saw her out of her hospital gown and back in class — the real her, skinny and pale from weeks spent in bed, and not the glorified caricature of who she desperately wanted to be. Not the Maki who’d been so adept with a bow and who had urged Naoya along when hours of fighting tired him out.   

Kei hadn’t said anything, too preoccupied with discussing his own future prospect and that of the Nanjo Group with a teacher to put in a well-placed remark, but he’d felt something in him warm up then, just a tiny bit. Perhaps it was his heart, swelling up with pride for her sake, proud of the fact she wasn’t going to be one of undoubtedly many from their class who would find themselves with no future waiting at the end of the long road called education.

Perhaps it was sentimentality. Kei had never thought he’d be acquaintanced with such an emotion, let alone familiar, but life had a way of mocking one’s expectations, as if offended at having been underestimated. Yamaoka was dead, but Kei still kept the eyeglasses that once belonged to him: cracked and stained and old, but it was Yamaoka’s all the same, and so it stayed with him, as secure in Kei’s pocket as his diploma was impeccable.

Eriko went on continue her studies in the country. She was going to become a model, or at least that was what Kei’s parents mentioned, having received a call from an acquaintance of a friend who knew Eriko’s family to attend her graduation party. Kei hadn’t gone, despite Yukino’s urging, but he’d sent her a dress with a card attached. A few days later, Yukino had sent him a picture. Flanked at both sides by Yuka and Maki, her smile unselfconsciously broad and eyes bright with potential, he thought Eriko seemed happy.

Yukino went down the path she’d laid out for herself, camera in hand, Saeko-sensei’s well-wishes and years of misdemeanor behind her. Reiji and Yuka married early (and to other people, to everyone’s unsaid relief) — it wasn’t as if Kei was concerned enough about them to have anything to say about that, though — and Hidehiko tried his luck in show business, an endeavor which, to Kei’s dismay, he succeeded in. (The last time Kei heard of him, he was calling himself “Brad”, which said enough about the kind of life he was leading.)

And Naoya… he’d gone to do his own thing. Kei couldn’t hope to understand, but Naoya had never pretended to be an open book: so when Kei said his farewells to him, through a phone call that went straight to voicemail, he’d done so without so much as an expectation to hear back. And he didn’t.

—

With time, the circumstantial ties that bound them petered away, eroded by obligations and responsibilities, only to be haphazardly glued back together by the occasional text message or email, full of sentimental promises of get-togethers no one fooled themselves into thinking would happen or innocuous sentences like “I hope you’re well”, or “my courses are demanding, but enjoyable; why don’t you tell me about your life”, or “do you still have a stick up your ass or have you pulled it out by now, oh great Nanjo” — but it only took a few months before even that slowed down. Unnoticeably, at first, and then to a crawl that was almost irritating in the fact it wasn’t quite a complete halt. Kei replied to some of them, but on most days, he was too busy. Eventually the messages stopped, and his responses along with them.

It was fine by Kei — really. In the long run, it was better not to be missed. Naoya had understood it well, with his disappearing act, and everyone else was just now starting to catch up. He’d always been smart, hadn’t he?

The plane ticket was in his hand, and his scarf was brand new. The blue-eyed flight attendant greeted him in passable Japanese, and gave him a smile that was guarded, but bright in that plastic corporate way Kei could tell with ease. His parents had sent him off without so much as a goodbye, or good luck; merely an order, a clipped and expectant reminder not to disappoint them.

Naturally, Kei wasn’t going to forget it. The late autumn air was an unwelcome brittle chill on his skin. Bag slung over his shoulder, he boarded up the plane bound for London and didn’t spare even a thought to look back. Only a brief memory of the events taking place over a year ago passed his mind throughout the flight, dissipating as quickly as his consciousness once the plane took off. 

(And really, above all, Kei was glad to be rid of the misfortune of having to see “Brad” say his jokes on live TV for at least a whole year. Preferably more.)

—

Masao was the one person in their mismatched equation who Kei had always felt didn’t quite belong, Reiji notwithstanding, which was saying something. He was compassionate and hotheaded and foolhardy in a way that irritated Kei to no end, and Masao was all too willing to return Kei’s sentiments, sneaking insults into every conversation as though he had thought Kei would be too caught up in his haughty delusions to notice. It’d been a tired, unending routine between them by the time Hidehiko went up and forced them to play the Persona game, and it only continued to worsen when circumstances forced them to work together — but work together they did, against all odds, teeth clenched and expression tight all the while.

One stretched-out moment of success meant nothing in the grand scheme of a relationship marked by disagreements and petty ribbing, though: after Pandora was slain and Maki woke up in the real world instead of an illusionary one, Masao was still Masao and Kei was still himself, and in the end nothing between them had changed. That, too, was fine by Kei. It was foolish to think two people could change so easily, so quickly. 

It was Masao who’d been first to break off contact with Kei and the others, not Naoya. _America_ , he remembered Masao announcing, sounding triumphant like he hadn’t been screaming his lungs out at the rollercoaster ride a few moments ago. _My folks gave me the all-clear. I’m leaving this shithole of a town, can you believe that?_ _I’m going to make it!_ And Kei hadn’t been listening, obviously, but Masao stayed true to his words, and just like that, he was gone within the month. Kei was fairly sure that even then, standing at the junction between his old life and new, Masao couldn’t muster up the courage to confess to Maki, or even say a proper goodbye to her — or everyone else, for that matter. The thought was neither sour nor amused, just bland and stale and overdue. 

It wasn’t that Kei cared, anyway. When it came to Masao, Kei only observed the facts, and then deduced: never felt, and certainly never cared.

—

He knew there was a reason the poster caught his eye, besides its garishness and bright colors and thick, blocky letters that somehow managed to stand out in the middle of all the clutter. “Art exhibition,” it announced, against a backdrop of tacky paint splotches. Somewhere underneath it, above the time and place — the hotel’s name, the date a week and a half from today — it claimed it would display creations from fifteen up-and-coming, young artists (from ten different countries!)

And written further below, in small print and jammed between more than a dozen other names Kei barely skimmed over, was Mark Inaba.

Kei blinked. He took off his glasses, wiped the lenses clean, put them on again, and when Masao’s name didn’t magically misspell itself, he resigned to the fact that Masao was in the same continent — the same country! — as him. It had no right to be as upsetting as it was, but the realization somehow flared Kei up, made him wonder if it was really Masao’s fault or the cheap coffee he had earlier that day, even as his expression failed to shift from its usual stoic.

In any case, looking at the poster was both a waste of time and degrading to his already-poor eyesight. He had lectures to attend and company meetings to sit in and assignments to finish; he had no moment to spare trying to squeeze frivolous outings into his permanently packed schedule, let alone actually going to them. And even if he did, he wouldn’t waste it on Masao, no less the public vandalism he proudly touted as art.

Kei turned away. He wasn’t running late, but he could be, and Masao was to blame for that.  

—

—

—

After the day’s meeting was over, after everyone else had made their way down the hall and into the elevator, the CEO took him aside and invited him to dinner. It was only due to a split-second of better judgment that Kei didn’t outright refuse, citing at least three different reasons off the top of his head. He knew who the man was as much as understood he was in no place to turn down the invitation. In any case, he trusted himself enough not to be taken by honeyed words or poorly-veiled untruths.

So he went. Rain, whether light or otherwise, was such a constant presence in this country that within his first week he taught himself never to forget bringing a foldable umbrella. By the time the car stopped and the driver was motioning him with a gesture of his hand to get off, the sky was a darker shade of gray, the air already cold and humid with the promise of something worse than a drizzle. Kei stepped out of the car and inside the building. The hotel looked fancy, and although its name was vaguely familiar, he couldn’t place why.

He was too busy responding to a missed call by text message to even notice the sight of a yellow-hatted young man his age, ducking out of a taxi and entering the hotel only a few seconds before Kei did. If he weren’t, he would’ve recognized him — would’ve balked and immediately conceal it in the poorest manner possible, one or two passersby no doubt looking on. But he was, and so he didn’t. After Masao was long gone, Kei looked up from his cell phone, the message sent, and walked up the steps leading up to the glass front doors of the hotel building. He went inside.

—

The CEO — a brunet man in his middle ages with a moustache that made him seem older — smiled, and shook Kei’s hand for a second longer than he would’ve liked. A waitress walked up to the table, showing the bill as two others were already cleaning up the leftovers of the meal, wipes and trays and replacement napkins at the ready. “It’s all on me, of course,” the man said.

Kei wasn’t seventeen anymore, so instead of calling him out for the obvious brown-nosing he’d been doing shamelessly for the past hour and a half, he gave a courteous smile, thanked him for the admittedly-good meal. He only loosened his restraint once the man was well out of sight. Then, he let go of the breath he’d been holding, more tired than exasperated really.

(If he had it in him, he’d have felt offended at the fact that, when it all came down to it, what the man was after was not the approval of Kei as a person, but of Kei as the heir to the group named after his family. He was used to it to the point of expectance, but not acceptance.)

Kei had pulled out his phone, already typing a message to the driver waiting in the parking lot underneath the building, when his gaze flicked up just so—

Masao stood on the other side of the glass partition separating the dining area from the rest of the hotel. The hallway wasn’t narrow, but it was somehow empty; it was easy to take notice of Masao’s still-ridiculous attire, and once the initial feeling of shock had passed, it was even easier to reconcile the high-school boy Masao that existed in Kei’s memory to the older person standing some distance across, with his back leaned against the white wall and the hall’s light gleaming yellow above him. He was tapping his feet against the carpet in a rhythm that would no doubt annoy the hell out of Kei if he could hear it.

Two years ago, Masao had been the guy who suggested they sneak into the police station to obtain weapons, only to get himself swarmed by zombified policemen and locked in a jail cell in a magnificent double-whammy of idiocy, so it was no surprise when he was the one who walked up to Kei to greet him, instead of the other way around. The better question Kei could ask himself was why he didn’t temporarily shed his dignity and run out of the place the second the alarm bells started to ring in his head.

Too late: in the span of the ten seconds Kei had spent frozen and cursing himself, Masao had teleported from the hallway and in front of him. His smile was super-sized and, naturally, “still as shit-eating as ever.” (Those were Hidehiko’s words, not Kei’s.)

“Yo! Kei! I didn’t expect to see you here!” Masao greeted in Japanese. His arm was around Kei’s shoulder in an instant, trapping him before he could dodge. He smelled of off-brand shampoo and paint. “Don’t tell me you’re here to see my show — well, of course not. You wouldn’t get it. But still; I didn’t expect you’d be in London.”

Kei pushed himself free. “I’ve been studying in this country for the past year, you utter buffoon,” he spluttered. “So if anything, _I_ should be saying that!”

“Dude, you really are Nanjo. I never thought I’d miss your hard-ass face.” Masao took a step back, chuckling to himself. “Well, I don’t, but it felt good to hear that, right?”

Kei’s chin was hiked up. “My apologies, Masao, but I can’t say I return your sentiments.”

“Yeah, yeah — whatever; I’m all grown up now, so I’m not going to pick a fight over it in public, even if it’s you. Hey, c’mon, are you still mad I punched you that one time? I never apologized properly, but…”

“Why are you so chatty!” he exclaimed, exasperated already. He didn’t know what was worse: Masao’s presence or the ease of which months, years’ worth of tutoring and coaching fell apart in the face of his unbelievable obnoxiousness. It wasn’t a pleasant thing to know, that after over a year, Masao could still push his buttons the same way he did, used to do like it was a hobby. “Good grief,” Kei added, suddenly at loss.

Masao’s smile didn’t falter. Nothing good could come of it, Kei knew. He remembered his phone, the half-finished message unsent and abandoned. Against all rationality, he found himself revising it, telling the driver he could go back without him. _I got caught up in an urgent matter_ , Kei typed, _and it seems like it’ll take a while_. _I’m terribly sorry._

Why he didn’t tell him to get himself out of the parking lot and here to bail him out in a last-ditch effort to avoid spending any more time with Masao, Kei would never know. And if he did, he wasn’t sure he’d admit it, even to himself.

—

“They’re certainly… Well. They suit you.”

Masao made a face. “Dude! Is that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?”

“Take it however you want,” Kei replied, not missing a beat.

The framed artwork hanging from the wall was, to tell the truth, not his cup of tea. If it were any other person, he’d have spared a good word, in acknowledgement of the work put into it if nothing else — but this was Masao he was talking about. There was no way Kei was going to allow him the luxury of a compliment without it being backhanded. He couldn’t help himself. 

“Jeez,” Masao said. “Cold as ever, huh. I bet it started raining more often once you started living here.”

Kei paid him no mind. It was a lie to say that in the yearlong interim between their graduation and accidental reunion, he hadn’t heard the name Masao Inaba being tossed around: whether mentioned in newspaper articles or briefly in television spots or even in the still-fledging outlet called the World Wide Web, people were talking about him, more often than not in English but occasionally in Japanese. Keeping up with the news was one of his many obligations as a member of the Nanjo family, though, and seeing an old classmate’s name come up here and there every other month was bound to happen, as coincidences do — and especially if he was making a name of himself as a minor celebrity in his own right.

So it was entirely coincidental, how Kei had somehow managed to be aware, in bits and pieces, about how Masao’s name rose in the art world; how he took up logo designing for several companies; how he earned more acclaim than disdain from critics for his “funky” and “unorthodox” style. Entirely coincidental, he was sure. He felt something rise up his chest, then, a feeling he recognized from long ago but refused to name all the same.

Of course, he’d rather keel over before he admitted that to the person in question, so Kei just turned around, eyes narrowed, and told him: “And you’re the same old clown I knew from back then, Masao.” He gave as good as he got.

Masao jabbed him with his elbow. Kei barely felt it.

—

“How long do you plan to stay here?”

Masao had been fiddling with his cigarette pack for a few moments now, but he had the good sense not to light one in front of Kei. “Eh? I’m going back to New York once the exhibit is over, so… about a week from now, give or take.”

His prediction was true. During the time they’d wasted staring at Masao’s scribbles the rain had started, a thin misty drizzle at first before it continued to fall with gradually punishing ferocity. Kei still had his umbrella, his foresight more than making up for his deficiency in actual seeing, but naturally, Masao wasn’t as prepared.

The two of them stood side-by-side in front of the hotel, trying their best not to shiver in the cold as they waited for Kei’s driver. Masao, as it turned out, had an acquaintance in London who was willing to let him crash instead of having to pay extra for a room at the hotel where the exhibition was being held. It also turned out that he was preoccupied, and wouldn’t be able to come pick Masao up until at least another hour. Taxis were somehow impossible to flag down, despite Masao’s repeated attempts. In the end Kei had offered him the ride, partially because compassion was a virtue, and partially because it would just be pitiful to leave Masao waiting alone in the dark and rain for the guy to come pick him up.

“I see,” Kei said.

“You don’t ask questions unless you mean it.” Masao pocketed the cigarettes. “You’re not just curious, are you?”

“To be honest,” Kei said, gracefully sidestepping the accusation, “I didn’t expect you’d leave Mikage-cho so soon after graduation. I assumed you’d invite everybody for a ‘farewell Mark’ party, or said goodbye or — anything, really. It pains me to say it, but I think that was the first time you truly surprised me, Masao.”

“What else were you expecting? An apology?” Masao laughed, wheezy and facetious. “I remember being really excited to leave. It’s not much of an excuse, though. Well, everyone leaves eventually. I suppose I was just the first.”

He was right. After Kandori died, after SEBEC became little more than water under the bridge and final exams were done and tackled with, the only thing left was to face the future. One by one they left, each in pursuit of one elusive dream or another. Kei, too, was part of that. Becoming the number one man in Japan — to ever lose sight of that goal would mean betraying Yamaoka’s last wish. The pair of glasses in his jacket pocket was a constant reminder of that. It hadn’t made him feel much at the time, to barely be eighteen and watching the friends he fought and faced trials alongside bid their farewells one at a time, whether spoken or written or not at all. He’d simply accepted it as inevitability, a fact of life.

But now, standing beside an old classmate he could never stand and still didn’t, Kei felt like he was on the cusp of an understanding. It hadn’t occurred to him once, in the past dozen-so months, to call or put to paper all the things he chose to leave unsaid. He knew intention meant nothing without action, though. He was nineteen now, and he felt that somewhere along the way he’d missed his chance, too preoccupied with obligations and responsibilities to even care about what if, or what could’ve. Perhaps that was what everyone else felt — was feeling — too. But Kei couldn’t pretend he understood them that well. After all, it’d been over a year since they last met.

“I suppose,” echoed Kei. “Masao. We probably won’t see each other again, will we?”

“Hmm,” started Masao, “probably not. But it was nice to see an old friend. Even if it’s you I’m talking about, I still think of you as one. We went through a lot together, after all.” His hands were in his pockets. "No one can take that away from us."

Just then, the familiar black car pulled up in front of the hotel. Kei’s driver lowered the windowpane.

“That’s your ride, huh?”

“Let’s get going. I tire of this weather.” Kei walked ahead, umbrella already opened. 

“Dude, even your umbrella has a #1 on it? Get real! Hey! Are you going without me?”

Kei sighed, and looked back despite himself. “I will, if you don’t shut up.”

“You dick,” said Masao, but then he pressed his lips shut, and followed behind him. The rain was heavy and cold and unrelenting all around them.

**Author's Note:**

> 29/09/17: written before i finished kei's route! in fact, i'm pretty sure i was putting off finishing kandori's lab so i could post this. if i could go back i'd... try to make that less obvious.


End file.
